


Sleep Walkers

by HMSquared



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Corpses, Dialogue Light, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Insane Clown Posse - Freeform, Memory Loss, Murder, Serial Killers, Sleepwalking, Songfic, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:22:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25500562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HMSquared/pseuds/HMSquared
Summary: Sideshow Bob’s life goes to hell, not that he knows it. There are, after all, gaps in his memory…
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Sleep Walkers

Reverend Joy found himself hosting another session at the church. He’d started a program called “confession circle,” where people discussed their issues and what they wanted to change. It’d actually been a rousing success, the city’s nastiest criminals making an effort to change.

There was one person who hadn’t shown. Lovejoy knew he was out of prison but figured he wasn’t interested. Boy, was he wrong.

Everyone had settled into the pews when he arrived. Looking up, Lovejoy saw a familiar red palm tree. The hairstyle of Sideshow Bob.

“Bob.” He smiled. “Have you come to join us?”

“My dear Reverend Lovejoy.” Bob crosses the room in long strides, placing himself next to the reverend. “I’m afraid I won’t be here for long, but I need to confess.”

“Alright. Whatever you have to say, go for it.” Lovejoy gestured for him to go ahead. Bob looked out at the others and nervously smiled.

“Hello, everyone. I’m Bob Terwilliger, and...I think I’m a murderer.” The crowd scowled.

“Hello, Bob,” they crooned in unison. Lovejoy quickly placed a hand on Bob’s shoulder.

“It’s alright, everyone. Bob, please be more specific.” He nodded.

“Are you aware of the various murders recently?” They all were; Springfield’s residents kept going missing and turning up dead. Bob felt his face go red. “I’m pretty sure it’s me.”

“Why?”

“There are…” He sighed, wiggling his fingers. “Reverend Lovejoy, I’m afraid there are gaps in my memory. I’ve been waking up with dirt on my clothes.” Bob swallowed. “And last week, I woke up with a knife and shovel in my hands.”

“I see.” Lovejoy pursed his lips. “Do you know who you’ve been killing?”

“No, I’m afraid.” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry for bothering all of you.” Then Bob drifted out of the church.

He’d also been having violent dreams. Dreams of murder and evisceration. 32 of them, to be exact. 32 dreams, 32 murders.

Bob had checked each news report against his dreams. It all matched. He was killing in his sleep.

But why? He couldn’t figure that part out. Nothing drastic had occurred lately. Things were relatively normal. Unless…

Maybe Bob had experienced something so traumatic his brain wanted him to forget.

He found himself drifting home. He was sleepy, which didn’t bode well. Bob swallowed, fighting to keep his eyes open.

“Just avoid the doughnut shop and you’ll be fine,” he muttered sarcastically. Bob’s shoes slapped against the pavement.

He got home to find a note on the table. It was his handwriting, though sloppier. Bob gingerly unfolded the paper.

_ NyQuil = reminder of happier times _

In the kitchen was a shot glass. He took a whiff and instantly recognized the smell.

Elementary school. The one period Bob had been happy.

Cecil got on his nerves. So did the other kids. He spent his time drawing images of them. At night, the pictures were burned.

Bob didn’t kill anyone. Not at first. But one night as a teenager, he got drunk on NyQuil and murdered the student council. All of them had been rich kids. All except for a young boy named Marvin.

He wondered if that pattern still applied.

Bob went out to Moe’s that evening. He ordered a few drinks and picked up a woman named Sally. She was blonde, pretty, and smart. Maybe having someone beside him would help.

The next morning, he woke to find the shovel next to him. There was a new molehill in the backyard.

The doorbell rang. Bob stumbled to his feet, unconsciously grabbing a kitchen knife. He felt sick.

“Delivery?” There was a meek paper boy at the door. Bob swiped the newspaper from his hand and his head throbbed. The boy looked at him. “Can I have a tip?”

“No, you may not have a tip!” Bob started to swing the knife. A face flashed before his eyes.

Bart, dressed in a Boy Scout uniform. He was the last one out of the woods. Bob grabbed him with a chemical rag.

They went to Denny’s for a midnight breakfast. Bart sat across from him, mouthing off as Bob ate. He tried to feed the boy. He didn’t listen.

The knife entered his ribcage in the parking lot. Bob put his body in the trunk, sobbing. It had begun to rain.

He snapped back to the present. The paper boy had fled. Bob stumbled backward, shaking.

He’d actually done it. He’d actually killed the Simpson boy. And for some reason, it upset him.

Bob got in his car and started driving. He didn’t know where he was going.

He eventually found the woods from his vision. The white rag was on the ground, forgotten. Bob opened the trunk.

Bart could’ve been asleep. But he wasn’t. Bob carried him into the woods, burying him in the campsite.

He suddenly felt dirty. Bob ripped off his clothes, tossed them aside, and fell asleep among the crickets.

He woke up at home to a pair of muddy boots. There were Krusty’s food wrappers all over the place. Of course.

Bob was dressed. Remaining barefoot, he got back in the car. Maybe Krusty still had chili fries.

The diner was surprisingly empty. He ordered some fries and parked at a table. Bob could smell the blood on his hands.

Krusty himself entered a minute later, hungover. He saw Bob and laughed.

The joker heard none of it. He didn’t remember drawing a knife and stabbing Krusty. He didn’t remember killing the cooks either. The waiters were the last to go.

Bob went to see a hypnotherapist that afternoon. When the session ended, he woke up to find her dead.

The murders wouldn’t stop. That he knew. But Bob needed them to stop.

He called the police and drove home. Bob tied himself to his bed and fell asleep.

The next 16 hours were spent murdering everyone in Springfield. After Lovejoy went down, the last of the citizens, Bob choked himself out.


End file.
